Uncertain Beginnings
by UncommonNonsenseSEM
Summary: Erik's POV Months after Christine had found out that her Angel was but a man, he finally dared to attempt to bridge the gap between them.


She had known the truth behind her Angel for about six months when this transpired.

We rarely touched, beyond what was expected in the etiquette of the era - the offering of a hand or arm for a lady to take when walking together. I loved her too much to willingly sully her with my touch, to profane her with my need to know everything about her, my desire to hoard every second of her life.

I am self-contained and usually quite controlled.

But on this night, as she sat curled on the warm, red Persian rug in front of the fireplace, reading, the glow of the fire in the grate caught in her hair, giving it a lustre I had never before seen. I set my violin aside and came to stand nearby, still looking at the way the fire light brought gleaming highlights into her dark, almost auburn hair. Despite the abrupt stop to the music I had been playing, she remained engrossed in her book and did not look up.

I wanted to touch that fire-lit hair, to see if it would burn me as surely as the fire itself would. And if it did indeed burn me, I would relish the shock and the pain.

I stretched my hand toward her. Stopped. I had no right.

That was when she looked up at me, questioningly. I pulled my hand back to my side. She put her brocaded book mark into the book to mark her place, than set the novel, a translated mystery story by an Irishman named Doyle that I had bought just for her, aside.

She smiled. "Erik. Sit with me?" Her voice was sweet and inviting, and when she offered her hand to me, I gladly took it in my own and sank down to sit beside her on the rug. Once seated, I did not want to release her delicate little hand, despaired over that casual contact being broken. But as seconds ticked by, the contact grew awkward, and I finally unfolded my fingers to allow her freedom from my loathsome touch. Amazingly, shockingly, she did not pull away like she'd been scalded, like I had expected. She allowed her hand to rest in my palm for another few seconds before slowly pulling her hand away... almost as if she too had not wanted to break contact. But that was impossible. After all, she knew.

Yet, she had allowed her warm, living hand to rest in my cold, corpselike palm.

Her eyes, so clear and blue and addictive, searched mine, held them.

"Christine...", I began. But I faltered and allowed the silence, the particular omnipresent, heavy, enfolding silence of a secret home built in the lowest cellar of this massive monument to music, to flow back in between us.

Her hand sought mine again. And I gently enfolded her soft, delicate little hand into my palms, feeling her warmth radiating into my cold flesh. She gave no indication that the deathlike chill of my hand bothered her, but to allow me to hold her hand was entirely different than allowing my dead hand to stroke her shining hair, to caress her cheek. How could I even think she'd permit that?

But the need was too urgent. I had to ask.

"Christine... may I.. may I touch your hair? Your face?" I had meant to say it calmly, steadily, but instead, it came out as a whisper that she leaned closer to me to hear. Closer!

"Oh Erik!", she exclaimed. "Of course you can!" Her smile was sweet and inviting.

I raised the hand that she was not holding, my left.. and when I felt the first soft strands of her hair against my fingertips, I could not help but gasp. Her curls seemed to fit perfectly, naturally, around my long fingers. And it was so soft... and warm. The fire leant her hair hues of molten copper and bronze, but it did not burn me.

As my hand swept through her hair, her eyes never left mine. They sparkled in the candle-lit twilight of my parlor. As my hand moved, I continually checked for ongoing consent in her gaze. And she gave it.

When I first touched the downy skin of her cheek, I felt a euphoric rush akin to opium. I closed my eyes as it washed over me, warming me, cleansing me, healing me. I sighed my contentment as I cupped the graceful curve of her cheek in my palm. My right hand, released from hers, cupped her other cheek, and I felt her lean in towards me. I inhaled the mingled scents of her - the shampoo she used, the fragrant soap I had bought for her, the subtle scent of her purfume, and thought that nothing could be more perfect than this moment. If I died right now, right here in this moment, I would die the happiest man who had ever existed.

When our lips touched, I reached the perfect pinacle of joy. It coursed through me like a miraculous drug, healing the wounds I had carried all those years.

That's when I felt her hand against my mask. Then, the unfamilar sensation of cool air against the skin of my face, and I tried to pull away, tried to hide the horror she had revealed yet again.

But I could not pull away. She had grasped the lapels of my suit jacket, pulling me towards her with surprising resolve. I opened my eyes, fully expecting to see horror and revulsion in her expression. But instead, she was regarding me calmly, her eyes once again seeking mine.

"Erik... I hate that you hide your face from me. I know I reacted terribly before. I just wasn't expecting... I thought... with your voice, your poise, that you had to be someone from the Opera company... she trailed off then. But then, she did something miraculous.

She touched my face! She ran her fingertips over my sharp, misaligned cheekbones. She pressed them to the strange, uneven, runneled mass of melted-wax-like tissue of my cheeks. She gently avoided the areas where the mask's constant pressure had created permanent weeping sores, but was just as gentle with my sallow skin even in areas where it was intact. When her fingertips brushed the mass of tumerous tissue that the right side of my lips bloomed into, I tried to pull away again.

But she refused to let me. And once again, she leaned in towards me, and I met her lips with my own. I closed my eyes again, flying on the rapturous intoxication of her kiss.


End file.
